Petit Agneau
by x.Lady.Midnight.x
Summary: A young woman is desperate to prove her father's innocence. She decides that paying a late night unscheduled visit to his psychiatrist, is the way to do it. Silly little lamb, why would you break into the lion's den?


***My first attempt at a Hannibal fic... be gentle with me. If you could, a few words at the end would be greatly appreciated.**

**~ Petit Agneau ~**

She knew, what she was doing was wrong, but she had to know. No. More than that. She had to _understand._

Our heroine's father's sanity, had left a lot to be desired of late, but she could not believe that the man who had read her to sleep her whole life, had mocked her badly told jokes, was now suddenly deemed a danger to society. Her soft voiced father, whose emerald eyes crinkled when he laughed, was now safer caged behind the bars of Baltimore State Hospital, whilst the rest of the world left him behind to rot.

It wasn't fair, and it had to be changed.

That was why she hid herself now in the shadows, staring up determinedly at a very beautiful, and proud town house. Home and office to none other than her father's Psychiatrist. Dr Hannibal Lecter. Her father had been a patient of his for the past year, and it had been _him_ that had told the authorities that her father was violently unstable. The girl scoffed under her breath at the thought.

_Lies._

She just needed the proof to show people. To prove to them that her father wasn't crazy. Then he could come home, and she would no longer have to listen, to the sounds of her mother crying herself to sleep at night – a rather twisted lullaby for any daughter.

The moon rose higher, and eventually the streets fell quiet. Only the odd vagrant sat on a nearby corner could act as a witness, and judging by the whisky bottle at his side, he wasn't exactly a reliable one.

The house's windows fell into darkness, and our heroine took her chance to sprint across the street, her dark hair whipping excitedly around her face in the cold November wind, until she reached the the thick foliage on the other side. Using it as cover, she crept carefully 'round the side of the house, looking for the easy to reach entrance she had spotted earlier that day.

She found it. A lightly cracked window, hung ominously over a tiled ground floor roof. Now she just had to hope that it didn't lead into the main bedroom.

Using a nearby tree, she climbed stealth-like onto the roof, cursing under her breath at every tiny creak and snap she emitted, her nerves making the sound ring tenfold it's actual level, until she quietly told herself to get a grip, and focus on the task at hand.

Finally she reached the intended window. A trapped breath she hadn't realised, she'd been holding, now releasing itself in relief, when she saw that her entrance actually lead onto a long, dark corridor.

She cracked the window a little higher, but luckily she was small, and with an added inch, found it easy enough to drop down soundlessly onto the carpeted floor. Her skin tingled excitedly; the fear and excitement of her actions, sending waves of adrenaline tripping generously through her body, as she tip-toed silently along the walls, hyper vigilante of every door, and blind corner, until she came to a large empty room.

It was hard to see in the dim, the thick, towering curtains blocking out most of the moonlight. One single ray shone through, spotlighting a very heavy looking stag sculpture. It was black, like other pieces in the room, yet it stood out, though it wasn't by any means the most unique item there. Our heroine's eyes travelled the high ceilings, noting the hard to see bookshelves, sat comfortably upon the upper platform that ran over the dim alcoves surrounding her. Art macabre, and Persian rugs... the room was breath taking, even in darkness. She had almost forgotten what she was doing there, when a glow of dim light illuminated the room, throwing misleading shadows across the floorboards, and sending her heart into a frenzy.

A gasp escaped her before she could stifle it, and spinning on her heels, she quickly froze. Her gaze instantly held by the tall, lean, and impeccably dressed man sat at the writing desk behind her.

She hadn't even noticed he was there, it was like he had been waiting for her... surely that couldn't be possible? She had been so careful not to be noticed.

"It's rude to sneak up on people, you know." She mumbled meekly, needing the time to put her worries to rest, and hoping that falling back on good old fashioned defence mechanisms would calm her frantic angsts. She took a breath. "Do you often sit in the dark?"

He didn't seemed to be perturbed by her; she noticed, quite the opposite in fact, he appeared almost amused, as if he was listening in on his own private joke. He smiled at her, standing up from his desk in a military manner, but when he made towards her, she backed away, careful to keep some much wanted distance between them.

He laughed softly. "Miss Fields, you have broken into my home. Perhaps it should be I, that is the fearful one, hm?"

It was clear that he didn't think that in the slightest, in fact, his statement only seemed to amuse him more, but there was something that troubled her deeper.

"How do you know, who I am?" She whispered, her voice catching awkwardly at the back of her throat.

So much for making a clean getaway.

"You have your father's eyes." He said simply, contently folding his hands in front of him. "Such a colour is hard to forget."

"Then you _are_, Dr Lecter?" She pressed gently, though the question was hardly necessary, no man can be unlucky enough to have _two_ burglars in one night. Albeit, she reasoned it wasn't impossible, it would explain his need for darkness, at least.

"I am he." He nodded, destroying any other notions, and swaying slowly on his feet, subtly shifting the odds of distance in his favour. Hannibal ran his fingers over the back of the couch. "What brings you to my office at this late hour, Miss Fields? You do not have an appointment, would it not have been more suitable to make one during daylight hours?" He paused to reflect. "Perhaps, when I observed you outside earlier this afternoon?"

Her breath faltered. So he _had_ known she was coming. He'd probably known she was there all along, turning the lights off in order to lure her into a false sense of security. She'd called his bluff and lost famously.

"Why haven't you rung the police?" She questioned, unable to keep _all_ of the annoyance out of her voice. He had played her, after all. "If you knew I was watching the house, why didn't you report me?"

Hannibal tilted his head. "I was curious to see what you would do."

"_Excuse me_?"

"You've been sat out there all day, you haven't even eaten. Such passion sparks curiosity."

"For most people it would spark nerves."

"I am not _most _people." He paused. Silent for a moment. "You do not strike me as the sort of woman to act out reckless actions without cause." His beetle-like gaze met her green wells. "There is no doubt a noble goal behind your quest."

She nodded timidly, ready to act the damsel in distress and quickly thought better of it. Instead she squared her jaw, confidant and bold once more, as bravely, she forced herself to meet his gaze. "I wanted to see my father's notes... please." She added, a good upbringing making it impossible to be too impertinent.

Hannibal glided forward, a lion on the prowl. "Why did you not simply request this through the proper channels? You're next of kin, you have access to all his files now that he is incarcerated."

The word '_incarcerated'_ made her flinch – a gesture Hannibal did not miss – but she steadied herself soon enough.

"No." She corrected heatedly. "My _mother_ is next of kin, and she has denied me any access. This was the only way."

He frowned, making his gaze appear hooded. "What do you hope to find?"

"That dad... that my _father,_ isn't crazy."

Hannibal blinked. "I never insinuated that he was, Miss Fields."

"He's in a _mental asylum_ because of what _you_ advised." She scoffed, unable to stop the boorish gesture. "You must have said something to make them put him away."

"You're father is a deeply disturbed man. He needs to be kept away from society until his syndrome is treated and under control. Would you want him to hurt someone?"

It was patronising the way he said it, and our heroine began to feel particularly ill at ease, though the feeling seemed to come without explanation. It was as though this was yet another joke she was not allowed to be privy to, and idea made her hesitate.

"I don't believe he's capable of such a thing."

"Everyone is capable of such things."

"Not him."

"And you want evidence, to prove your theory?"

She nodded, and Hannibal returned smoothly to his desk.

"I see that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, Miss Fields." His noted softly, his lips twitching at the corners, as he searched carefully through the top draw. "However, your father tells me, you wish to venture a more _self-fulfilling_ career path than tabloid journalism."

She frowned nervously. Surprised that her father had discussed her at all. "What did he tell you?"

"That you have your eyes set on a life in law enforcement." Bowing his head, he smirked to himself, and our heroine fought not to roll her eyes. The irony hadn't escaped her either. Breaking into people's houses wasn't exactly encouraged by the police.

She shrugged dismissively. "It's something I'm looking into. Look, can I just – "

"Did you know your father was working on a story involving the Chesapeake Ripper?"

She stopped dead. Unprepared for the sudden change in subject.

"_What_?"

"He believed he was well on the way to catching him to, that he even had a faint idea _who_ he was."

Her lips parted in confusion. "That's impossible."

She couldn't believe it. Her father had been working on a story _that_ huge, and he hadn't told her? They shared everything, and he had kept her out of what could have possibly been the biggest opportunity of his career! She could have helped, but saying that... maybe that's why he kept her in the dark...

She shook her head, murky thoughts now clouding her mind.

"But there was nothing in his study to suggest he was tracking the Chesapeake Ripper. It was mainly files on gang crime, petty muggings, just _small _stuff. There was nothing in there about any murders, not even in his notes."

"Perhaps your father didn't want the information left around the house. The contents of his investigation would not be appropriate for you or your mother to read."

"I suppose..." She agreed quietly, self-consciously biting her lip, as her brain frantically whirred into action. "He could have kept it in a number of places. Maybe the lock-up, that would be the safest... hang on.." She looked away from the abyss that was her mind, and found the good doctor staring at her intently. Gathering up her emotions, she swallowed hard. "Why are you telling me this? What has any of this got to do with why I came here?"

Hannibal looked thoughtful, finally closing the draw and straightening his tie and sleeves.

"I thought you wanted to know more about your father, Miss Fields?"

"No, I wanted his file, so I could get him released from Baltimore. He doesn't belong there."

Hannibal was close now, his large strides easily bringing him to her side in but a few steps. She looked up at him, her gaze wide and infantile. "Have you got it?"

"No, and I'm afraid that it wouldn't do you much good, even if I allowed you to see it. I am far too thorough with my doings."

"I don't understand." She whispered, something about his face frightening her. He seemed so cold suddenly, detached. She shivered. "Then what were you looking for in the drawer?"

"You should not have interfered, Miss Fields." He scolded matter of factly, reaching carefully into his pocket. "I do not take kindly to being spied on."

She opened her mouth to argue, noting to her fear, the tiny glint of silver in his right hand. The pain in her neck was minuscule, before the darkness swallowed her whole.

When our heroine came to she found herself to be inside a different room entirely, though it was hard to tell exactly where she was, for her eyes refused to focus. Beneath her the surface was cold, but when she attempted to move, she found it an impossible feat. This panicked her, and her head flailed from side to side, fear induced sobs now clawing their way out of her throat.

Then she realised she was naked, and she screamed, but the cry barely sounded, despite the effort it took on her vocal cords. She moaned.

"Careful, Miss fields, you do not want to incite a stroke."

That voice. The voice of the devil himself. Hannibal Lecter now stood over her, his face a calm mask of contempt, as he finished zipping himself into some kind of plastic suit. He tilted his head thoughtfully at her, his eyes a mixture of quiet indecision, and a child's excitement.

She whimpered again. "What have you done to me?"

Hannibal began moving smoothly through the room, and she could hear the gentle clinking of instruments, each chime sending her heart sky-rocketing into her throat. When he spoke a moment later, the tinkling of metal had stopped.

"I borrowed a method recently implemented by your animal welfare institutes." The clinking began again. "Farmers are now encouraged to slice a pig's peripheral artery before killing them – it is considered more _humane _that the pig does not suffer, and so is therefore rendered unconscious before it is taken to the slaughter."

A small scalpel was raised in front of her, and her eyes widened, terrified of the pain that was sure to follow that insignificant point. She looked away.

"Is that why I can't move?" She rasped, desperate to keep him talking, anything to distract him from what he intended.

She didn't realise that Hannibal found it only to easy to divide his attention.

"No." He murmured huskily, and she felt the very first pinch of the knife in her side. "I applied a very small injection of anaesthetic. It wont allow you any movement from the neck down, but you'll be able to feel pain." Another pinch, and she bit down on her tongue. "I'm afraid, you just won't be able to do anything about it."

"Why?" She breathed groggily, feeling something warm and wet beneath her spine. She didn't want to dwell on it. "Why are you doing this?"

"Your father came to me, Miss Fields, when the stress of life was getting to him. A few months after he began seeing me, he started working on The Chesapeake Ripper case, and again he sought out my assistance."

Through the incision he'd made, she felt his knowing fingers slide skilfully inside her, and gasped. The pain was blinding, it stole all breath from her lungs.

She wretched. "Please stop."

But Hannibal carried on as if she hadn't even spoken. "You should be proud of your father, Miss Fields. He actually managed to pull together a better case than the FBI, but as enjoyable as I found his company, he was of course getting a little too close to the end of his path. I was forced to intervene."

Despite her drugged state and deep agony, she managed to meet his gaze, her own turning hateful, as slow understanding gradually began to seep in.

Hannibal Lecter was the Chesapeake Ripper.

He smiled arrogantly, seeing the small recognition in her eyes. He continued. "PCP, Miss Fields, a small controlled amount in your father's morning coffee, would overtime cause the effects as if taken in it's purest form. Though perhaps not as violent. Your father believed he was taking a stress-relief."

She felt the tears touch her face, anger, fear, and guilt. She remembered him adding the white powder to his beverage, she had thought he was coping. She couldn't bare the idea that she had been watching him slowly drug himself.

"He'll remember," She murmured threateningly, clearly grasping at straws. "He'll get better. You can't get to him, where he is."

"True." Hannibal agreed, finally removing his hands from her insides. Was that a kidney? "But I am sorry to tell you, Miss Fields, that your father will suffer a massive coronary in the early hours of tomorrow morning. Find comfort that his death will be much quicker than yours."

She sobbed now, unable to contain the burden of her woe any longer. Her emotional pain fair out-weighed the physical, and she turned her head from him, closing her eyes, and tried desperately to imagine herself anywhere else but in his cold, damning arms.

"Miss Fields." He was talking to her again. She willed him with all her might to stop, but of course he did not. "I hope you do not take this too personally. I truly did like your father, and your watchful antics over the past few days have amused me greatly. I shall sorely miss both your companies." He stopped his cutting. "I give you my word you will be savoured, Miss Fields." His gloved hand brushed her breast, before slowly sliding purposefully down to her abdomen, his fingers sprawling covetously over her. "Such a fine, young dish, deserves to be savoured."

He stilled thoughtfully for a moment, angling the scalpel with intention between her pale breasts.

"Perhaps I'll invite your mother over for dinner?"

Her eyes snapped open. She screamed. And her milk dipped skin ran crimson.


End file.
